


Farewell

by isasolan



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Betrayal, Dysfunctional Family, Gen, Regency, Regret, Uncles and nephews, inadequacy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-03
Updated: 2013-12-03
Packaged: 2018-01-02 20:15:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,106
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1061146
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/isasolan/pseuds/isasolan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The last conversation between Orodreth and Finrod before he leaves with Beren.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Farewell

**Author's Note:**

> I only go by Shibboleth genealogies, so Orodreth is the son of Angrod, and the father of Finduilas and Gil-galad.
> 
> Some of Finrod's feelings follow from [this fic](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1061134) but can be read as a stand alone. Reposted/rescued from tumblr.

There is a part of Orodreth that thinks he should have spoken up, said he would go with Finrod, silenced the treachery of the sons of Fëanor. But the words caught in his throat. What of his daughter, not yet one hundred years old? What of his son, so young and so utterly unaware of the gravity of the situation that he still sang in the cave gardens like the child that he was?

 

He said nothing.

 

And then it was too late. The crown is now his, though he refuses to wear it. It is too soon. Finrod is still in Nargothrond, preparing for his journey with the awkward secrecy of a deposed leader.

 

The angry cries of the crowd will echo in Orodreth's ears forever. Would he truly have been able to rally the crowd, had he spoken up? He lacks rhetoric, he lacks a commanding voice. Nargothrond is full traitors. Disloyal people. Followers who turn their backs on their leader, and now Orodreth is their regent.

 

But then, he too was disloyal. Perhaps it is fitting. _No_ , he thinks. _I could not, I could not._ How could he leave his children over this absurd quest? He swore no oaths, he never had. Only his marriage vows, and Meril is dead. Surely Finrod knows this.

 

Doesn't he?

 

He finds him in the armouries, choosing a sword as he walks up and down the long rows of weapons. Some of them are from Aman. Most of them were forged here. His uncle does not turn to face him.

 

"I am sorry," Orodreth says. His voice comes out hoarse.

 

Finrod says nothing. He runs his hand over a blade absently.

 

"I could not. My children... You, you know this, uncle? Don't you?" Curse his lack of eloquence. "Still, I wish... I wish I had said something. Lent you my support."

  
"I wish you had, too," Finrod says, and meets his eyes for the first time in a long time. "Your voice might have swayed the crowd. Your voice, as one of the House of Finarfin, as one who came from Aman in the darkness and in the cold might have carried more weight than that of the kinslayers."

 

Orodreth has never heard his uncle name his other uncles kinslayers. He swallows, and the taste is bitter. Finrod thinks too much of his voice. He still does not know exactly what he would have said had he spoken up, hours after it happened. "I am not certain it would have made a difference at that point, uncle."

 

_Not with the bleak prospect of your hopeless quest_ , he thinks, but keeps that to himself.

 

"But it would have. You still do not see why your support was important? I suppose that is hardly a surprise. Your father never really understood courtly matters."

 

Only then does Orodreth realise Finrod is stroking what was Angrod's blade, saved from the fire and the wreck by a few loyal followers. Aegnor's lies next to it, appropriately.

 

The anger makes his face grow hot. "My father was a good person," he says, his voice wavering, stupidly. "A good warrior. He held the North for you."

 

Finrod looks amused when he glances at him, but his face is so ashen it is nearly frightening. "I never said he was not. Yet he was utterly boorish in court and quick to wrath like a sea storm. One statement does not contradict the other, nephew. But I had hoped, in the years you have been here, that you would come to understand the power struggles better."

 

"If you find me so unsuitable, why did you name me your regent? Name someone more fitting!"

 

Orodreth turns to leave, enraged to have wasted his time with apologies. But Finrod calls out after him.

 

"None is more fitting. You will be the Head of the House of Finarfin after I die."

 

The way he speaks of dying makes Orodreth stop abruptly. When he faces him again, Finrod is still stroking Angrod's blade. As angry as he is, he cannot bear the thought of his uncle never returning, never laughing again, never sitting on the throne. It would make Orodreth the King. _No_ , he thinks, _no_.

 

"You will not die," he argues half-heatedly.

 

"I fear I may. But I have sworn, and I will honour the Oath that returned to me a life that should have ended in the North with my brothers."

 

Is that regret in his voice? Finrod is now touching Aegnor's sword.

 

"Uncle. That is not the only way and you know it. Send word to Thingol. There may yet be hope. He may have spoken in haste, and he might regret his words."

 

"Ah, you do believe in diplomacy now?" If only Finrod did not sound so amused every time Orodreth suggests something. His bleak smile is not unkind, but it does feel like he is talking to a child, teaching a lesson that his nephew is too dim-witted to understand. "Nay. Even if I could send word... what happened in that Hall has..."

 

He does not speak for so long Orodreth does wonder if he missed the word. "Has what?"

 

"Destroyed me."

 

The grief on Finrod's face is so violent that Orodreth staggers and reaches for him, but his uncle waves his hand away. Refusing his comfort. Refusing him.

 

"I have lost my people today. Could I truly call myself King of Nargothrond any longer? Only ten remain loyal, ten out of thousands. Nay, nephew. My life is over."

 

Orodreth has seen so many die. Fallen in battle in the North, bleeding to death. Frozen on the ice. Burned in the flames. He has never seen anyone die of grief, but Finrod may be the first one yet. He longs to move closer to him, but it is as if his uncle raised an intangible wall between them to stop him from it.

 

"And it grieves me even more to pass this burden onto you, unprepared and inexperienced as you are. But when the Darkness came we were all unprepared, and we prevailed. We will prevail, Orodreth. You will, and your children will, and your children's children."

 

Finrod lets go of the sword he was stroking and turns his empty eyes on him.

 

"They are the most precious treasure of our dying House, and our only hope. You should send them away from here before your Doom finds you, too."

 

Finrod takes a sword from the other row and walks out of the armoury with no further words. Not even farewell. Orodreth resists the impulse to run after him. The tears, however, he cannot stop.


End file.
